by Fiona Lowe
It wasn’t just the dress—she’d also treated herself to a professional hair and make-up session. She usually wore her hair down or tied back in a quick and easy ponytail, but Ebony had swept Tara’s long blonde tresses into an up-do, accentuating her long neck. Then she’d blushed her cheeks and smoked her eyes in a way that enlarged and darkened them to an arresting come-hither blue. An altogether sexy blue, which had been the brief. Tara intended to knock Jon’s socks off.
She slid some ibuprofen, lipstick and tissues into her evening bag and was looking for her phone when she caught the time on the bedside clock: 6:30 pm. How had it got so late and where on earth was Jon? The babysitter had arrived half an hour earlier to settle the kids and give her and Jon time to dress. They were supposed to be leaving for the Boolanga Chamber of Commerce business awards in five minutes. Hoopers Hardware, Timber and Steel was up for an award and after all Jon’s hard work—their hard work—they deserved a win. They needed a win, in more ways than one.
Tara found her phone and called Jon.
‘Don’t stress,’ he answered, pre-empting her. ‘I’m just turning into the drive now.’
‘You still have to shower and dress! Why have you cut it so fine?’
‘Denny North finally turned up just as I was leaving. Apparently we’re not the only business in town being graffitied.’
Tara stifled a sigh. ‘Please hurry.’
Why had the new police sergeant chosen tonight to talk to Jon when he’d had all week? Tonight was supposed to be a night off from the problems at the store. Hopefully a night of celebration and a chance to reboot and haul them out of the rut she believed they’d tumbled into without really noticing. People talked about the seven-year slump but she and Jon had weathered that. It was the ten-year mark that was proving tricky.
Unlike other couples, they hadn’t faltered when they’d become parents; instead they’d embraced the change. From the outside, it appeared that she and Jon had fairly traditional weekday roles—he worked full-time at the store and, apart from one day a week, she’d been at home with the under-fives. In the evenings and on the weekends, Jon was—had been—a hands-on dad. They’d prided themselves on their mixed skill set; how they each played to their strengths and together juggled the many balls demanded by family life. Privately, they’d congratulated themselves on how they appeared to be doing a better job of marriage, work and family than many of their friends.
But lately, Tara wasn’t sure they were doing better. This year, things felt different between them—everything was slightly off. She was missing the chaotic early years when Jon would walk in after work and, with a kid hanging off each leg, grab her around the waist, kiss her and ask, ‘How’s Team Hooper?’
Initially she’d assumed it was because Clementine had joined Flynn at school. Change always came with adjustment, but all the roles within Team Hooper that she’d happily occupied for years now seemed like chores. It felt like she was the housekeeper, laundress, chef, taxi driver, childcare worker, sports coach, art and craft teacher, and the personal assistant to Mr Hooper instead of a beloved wife. The tight-knit team of four they’d been so proud of felt as if it had fractured into three very separate parts.
Jon was different too. After work and on the weekends, his concentration was always elsewhere—far away from home. Whenever she asked him what he was thinking about, he’d say, ‘Just work’. Was it though? Their sex life, which had always been healthy, was deep in the doldrums. Jon had stopped touching her and she couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe he wasn’t distracted by work, but by something—someone—else.
Tara desperately wanted things to return to normal and tonight was the first step in making that happen. The few times they’d attempted sex recently, Jon had been so preoccupied with work he hadn’t come. Once, he’d been so tired he’d gone soft. But winning an award would get his blood pumping to all the right places. And so would this dress. It was so tight she’d forgone underwear, so when Jon peeled it off her she’d be naked and—
Her pelvic floor instinctively twitched, her cheeks flushed pink and her pupils spread like ink across the blue. God, she was as ready to ignite as the tinder-dry paddocks surrounding the town. All it would take was the spark of one deep kiss, one trace of his hand down her spine and she’d go up in a ball of flames.
‘Daddy!’ Clementine’s excited shriek floated up the stairs.
Tara rushed onto the landing, not wanting Jon waylaid by demands to read a story.
‘Mummy’s a princess.’ Wonder and delight rounded Clementine’s eyes. ‘Isn’t she, Daddy?’
‘Does that make me her frog?’ Jon said, bounding up the stairs towards Tara. ‘I’ll hit the shower and be ready in six. Promise.’
He disappeared into the bedroom, barely glancing at the silver and gold frock. Or the way it hugged her newly toned body like a second skin, emphasising curves in all the right places.
Disappointment formed a lump in Tara’s throat. She swallowed, pushing it down. The only reason he hadn’t commented on her and the dress was because they were running late. When they were finally alone in the car, he’d acknowledge that all her hard work with the personal trainer had paid off and tell her she looked a million dollars.
It had taken months, but Tara had finally banished the baby fat deposited by two pregnancies and hitting thirty-five. She was back to the size ten she’d been when she’d met Jon. Back when life stretched out in front of her, full of endless and exciting possibilities. Back when Jon looked at her with hungry eyes that devoured her and a secret smile that said you complete me.
By the end of tonight, that look would be back. Tara was sure of it.
The awards night dragged on. As usual, too many people went over the allotted ninety seconds for their acceptance speech.
When Jon asked the waiter for another beer, Tara lost her internal battle to stay silent. She placed her manicured hand lightly on his thigh. ‘What if we win? You’ll need to give a speech.’
His thigh tensed under her hand. ‘I’m fine.’
Tara didn’t agree, but it was more of an in-general disagreement than tonight-specific.
The master of ceremonies informed them there’d be a ‘slight break in proceedings for coffee and dessert. Then the winner of the Business of the Year award will be announced.’
‘Jonno!’ Rob Barnes, the football club’s president, appeared at their table. ‘You and Chris Hegarty have done an incredible job with the under-eighteens. No one expected them to get into the finals, let alone win. Can I put the two of you down to coach next year?’
Tara took the opportunity to excuse herself from a dull conversation about the two religions in town—football and cricket—and headed to the bathroom. As she fished her lipstick out of her evening bag and applied it, she made the same request she’d been silently chanting all night. Please let us win. Although this time she wasn’t sure if she meant the award or mutual orgasms.
Shannon Hegarty walked out of a stall. ‘Who are you and what did you do with my best friend?’
‘Still here.’ Tara laughed, confused by a heavy feeling in her chest and welling tears. ‘Just packaged a bit differently.’
Shannon washed her hands. ‘Well, I’m a beached whale.’
‘You’re not. You’ve got that alluring pregnancy glow.’
Shannon snorted. ‘That’s sweat. It’s so bloody hot in here. God, look at your waist. I had one of those once.’
‘And you will again. Besides, I saw Chris tonight. He can’t take his eyes off you.’
‘He’s a boob man and, I gotta say, pregnancy makes the girls shine. I might feel huge and unsexy, but Chris sees my boobs, thinks I’m a sex goddess and he’s hard and ready to go. Men are so deliciously uncomplicated, aren’t they?’
‘They really are.’ Tara forced a smile, trying to banish the image of Jon’s back facing her in bed each night, irrespective of her wearing serviceable cotton, sexy silk or nothing at all.
When she arrived back at
the table, Jon was deep in conversation with Vivian Leppart. The deputy mayor was always beautifully dressed and accessorised no matter the occasion, including shopping at the hardware store. Tara had tagged her the best-dressed renovator in Boolanga. Always in high heels, Vivian was a sight to behold in plumbing supplies or dodging obstacles in the timber yard—nothing fazed her. Tara assumed this was how she’d established herself as a sought-after business analyst and troubleshooter in what was too often a man’s world.
Tara admired the way Vivian gave back to the community through her volunteering and the long hours she spent on shire work. Not all the women in town shared her admiration though, and often used Vivian’s style and fashion choices as an excuse to voice their negative opinions. Tara put it down to tall poppy syndrome.
As Tara rested her hands on Jon’s shoulders, Vivian gave her the appraising head-to-toe glance that was the specialisation of all competitive women.
‘Wow! That’s some dress,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re a lucky man, Jonathon Hooper.’
Jon nodded. ‘I’d be luckier if the shire installed decent lighting in the car park behind the store.’
Vivian’s face filled with sympathy. ‘I tried. Unfortunately, the majority of councillors thought the money would be better spent on other projects. The consensus was Boolanga’s not Melbourne.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s getting more like Melbourne every day,’ Jon said. ‘We’ve become a handy dumping ground for the refugees and drop kicks they don’t want.’
‘It’s certainly creating some challenges for us all.’
‘Challenges? Have you seen the graffiti in the car park and across the rubbish skips? My father ran the business for thirty years and never had a single break-in. I’ve copped three in the last year. It’s those bloody African kids—’
‘I think they’re from Somalia … or Sudan?’ Tara said. ‘Somewhere starting with S.’
‘Oh, there’s quite a few of those,’ Vivian said brightly. ‘Sierra Leone, Senegal—’
‘This isn’t a bloody trivia competition!’ Jon’s shoulders stiffened. ‘The point is, those kids are running wild in the dark and I’m spending money cleaning up their mess. The shire—’
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ The MC’s voice boomed around the room. ‘Please take your seats. I know you’re all eagerly anticipating the announcement of which business has taken out this year’s big award.’
‘Tara, I’ve got the specs from the tiler. I’ll drop in and order them next week,’ Vivian said before returning to her table.
Both Tara and Jon took a big gulp of their drinks. In the late nineties, Jon’s father had won this award many times, but when Ian had handed the business over to Jon it wasn’t the shining star it had once been. There was more than one contributing factor, but a significant one was Ian’s drinking. The fact Hoopers Hardware, Timber and Steel was a nominee again was testament to Jon’s hard work.
Tara slipped her hand into his and squeezed. ‘Nervous?’
‘Little bit.’
‘You deserve this.’
‘The team deserves it. They work bloody hard, which is why I’m so angry about the light—’
‘As you know, the winners of each category compete against each other,’ the MC said. ‘So just in case you’ve had too much to drink, I’ll remind you of the nominees: Skyros Café; Hair With Flair; the Bendigo Bank; Hoopers Hardware, Timber and Steel; Boolanga Country Butchery; Toscani Builders; and Bandicoot Brewery. I’m sure you’ll agree all of them are worthy winners, but someone has to take out the gong. So, for best customer service, employee satisfaction, leadership, community responsibility and sustainability, the outstanding business of the year is …’ He fumbled with the envelope and withdrew the card. ‘Hoopers Hardware, Timber and Steel.’
Tara squealed and threw her arms around Jon’s neck. His arm crushed her to him and he laid a kiss on her lips reminiscent of their dating days. Her heart soared.
All too quickly, Jon was pulling away from her, shaking people’s hands and making his way to the podium.
‘Yes!’ He held the trophy aloft, his face lit with joy. ‘Not that I was competing with the old man or anything.’
Laughter ran around the room.
Jon cleared his throat the way he always did when he was about to say something serious. ‘Jokes aside, this is a special win. I’m not telling anyone here anything when I say it’s tough staying in business today. The drought, the water allocation issues, farmers and businesses facing bankruptcy, not to mention the ref—recent social changes in town. It all takes its toll. My team have done an amazing job and this win’s as much theirs as it is mine. I’m proud of what we’ve achieved through hard work and sheer bloody-mindedness.’
Tara kept her gaze fixed on her husband standing tall and handsome in his dark suit. It was like looking at a new man. No, that wasn’t strictly true. She knew this version of Jon—it was the passionate man who’d kept asking her out until she’d finally agreed to one drink, then one date, one weekend away, and then, on the eve of her return to Melbourne after three months in the district, she’d found herself saying yes to a marriage proposal.
Back then she’d been a city girl between cruise ship contracts, working in a summer job as the activities coordinator at the resort across the river. She’d had no intention of permanently living so far from the sea, but Jonathon Hooper, with his athletic ease, charm and boyish enthusiasm for life, had changed her mind.
Jon loved a project and he’d thrown all his energies into making the business the go-to store in the district for trade accounts and Mr and Mrs DIY. Boolanga was slowly growing, but that also meant the big boys were poking around. There were rumours Bunnings might build a store, which made Jon more determined than ever to make Hoopers number one for stock range, service and sustainability. Now that he’d won the award that officially endorsed all his hard work, he’d be looking for a new challenge. Perhaps she should create a husband-of-the-year award for him to strive for so his charm and boyish enthusiasm swung back to her.
‘There’s not one business in this town that isn’t working hard and looking for creative ways to stay one step ahead of the next challenge,’ Jon continued. ‘None of us is looking for a handout, but every business owner on Irrigation Road’s either battling graffiti or been broken into this year. It’s time the shire stepped up and installed lighting in the car park.’
‘Too right, Jonno!’ a voice from the back yelled. It was followed by the tinkling of glassware and a roar of applause.
Tara glanced at the councillors’ table. Vivian’s head was almost touching the mayor’s. Were the rumours true? Tara doubted it. Vivian was far too glamorous to slum it with flabby and florid Geoff Rayson. Besides, Sheree was sitting right there at the table. But whatever Vivian was saying to him, Geoff was nodding his agreement. Tara hoped it related to the lighting.
She raised her thumbs to Jon and mouthed, ‘Love you.’
He grinned back. ‘We won’t let this award go to our heads. Come tomorrow morning, Hoopers will be offering its same friendly service backed by local know-how.’
‘But with a hangover,’ Chris Hegarty called out.
Not if Tara had her way. She’d accompany Jon on one quick circuit around the room to shake hands and pat backs—half an hour tops—and then she and her husband were going home. A slightly buzzed Jon was fine—good even; a few drinks relaxed him—but full-on drunk and he fell asleep fast. She shied away from acknowledging there’d recently been nights when he was asleep in the chair by nine o’clock, stone-cold sober.
She met him as he came off the stage and slid her arm through his. ‘Great speech, darling.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Jonno!’ Ben, the photographer from The Standard, waved his camera at them. ‘Can I grab a photo of you and your team?’
‘No worries.’
Jon had paid for the head of each section to attend the dinner. As they gathered around
him and Tara, she heard Leanne Gordon say, ‘Is she really going to be in the photo? She’s hardly worked this year.’
‘Too busy working on herself,’ Samantha Murchison replied. ‘Tough life being a Boolanga WAG.’
Tara squashed the urge to swing around and grab Samantha’s orange spray-tanned arm. She wanted to say, ‘Just because you don’t see everything I do at home so Jon can concentrate on the business and keep you in a job doesn’t mean I’m not part of the team.’
‘Say sex,’ Ben said from behind the camera.
Amid the mixture of mirth and groans, Jon laughed and gave her waist a squeeze. ‘Sex!’
For the first time all night, Tara relaxed.
While Jon paid the babysitter, Tara checked the kids were fast asleep. When she came downstairs, the TV was on but Jon was sitting on the couch with his head back, his eyes closed and a smile on his lips. He looked tired but happy and she planned to make him happier still.
The tight fit of her dress prevented her from straddling his lap so she kneeled between his legs and put her hands on his thighs. ‘Hey.’
‘Mmm.’ His eyes stayed closed.
She reached up and undid his tie before pulling it out from under his collar. ‘It was a great night.’
‘Yeah.’
One by one, she undid the buttons of his shirt and pressed a kiss on each bit of warm exposed skin. His hand lightly stroked her hair and by the time her lips reached his belt, her body throbbed with heat and anticipation. Excitement made her fingers fumble on his belt buckle and it took her two attempts before she smoothly slid the leather from around his waist. Then she undid his fly and reached into his boxers.
He wasn’t completely hard so she treated him to her mouth, closing her lips around him.
His thighs jerked. ‘What are you doing?’
She blinked up at him, her brain fuddled by need. Had he just asked her what she was doing? She must have misheard him. She concentrated on the pressure of her mouth on him and her own building desire.
His hands gripped either side of her head and he gently pushed her away. ‘Stop.’
